


Searching for a Former Clarity

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halfway through the summer tour, Amy and the band have an extended stay in New York. While there, she reconnects with her dad and reflects upon her journey so far. Restless and homesick, she realises it’s harder to leave Karma behind than she thought. </p><p>
  <i>“Karma’s not here, but she’s still here.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 150 West 4th Street

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon up to the end of 2B. Lives in an S3 world. Character introspection. This is neither an attempt to fix canon or speculate what might happen, but my interpretation of it through a very particular lens. I really wanted to get into Amy’s head and explore what she might be going through on the road without Karma. I also wanted to explore Amy’s connection with Hank. I didn’t intend for those two things to appear as part of the same story, but they are now! I’ve tried to keep Amy’s trip as realistic as possible, so all the locations used are real. Title from/inspired by the Against Me! song of the same name. Shoutout to [spasticandviolent](http://spasticandviolent.tumblr.com) for her help during many hours of chat on this.

***

 _“Which goes to show, some sacrifices aren't worth the cost._  
 _Even, or perhaps more especially, those made out of love.”_  
― Leslye Walton, _The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender._

***

New York.

You made it all the way to New York.

Correction - that cheap, rust bucket of a van made it with you and the girls inside. Except, they’re not just ‘the band girls’ anymore. Six weeks, almost two thousand miles, hitting close to fifty shows, and countless motels, hostels and rest stops later you count Shay, Mia, Ash, Miranda, and Lizzie as friends. You’re not the annoying kid trailing behind them with camera equipment, following their every move. You’re not ‘shrimp girl’ or ‘camera girl’ or one half of Karmy either. You’re Amy.

Being Amy again sounds nice in theory, but you’re not sure who that is anymore.

Given that you’re officially halfway into this tour-slash-journey of self-discovery, you thought you’d be feeling differently about everything. Truth is, you haven’t had much time to do any real thinking, despite the fact that you’ve spent a lot of time watching open highways unfold in front of you or wondering where the hell the rabbit hole is as you listened to the girls talk and sing along to the radio (when the actually radio worked, that is). It was time wasted. Between travelling to shows, unpacking equipment, shooting video and taking pictures, repacking the equipment, and grabbing whatever passes for food, all that’s there’s really time for is falling face first on to the nearest bed. When there’s no bed, it’s a chair. You’re thankful for tiredness; it means you have less time to lie awake and think.

It’s been busy - the good, crazy, headspin kind of busy. You immersed yourself in everything, swallowing down the homesickness, the heartache, everything vaguely Austin, and all things Karma.

You’ve done a lot of learning along the way from the girls though: How to drive. How to restart a crappy van. How hard it is to push a crappy van. How _not_ to flood the engine. How gym memberships are bullshit because carrying amps, and guitars, and whatever else gives you serious guns. How to flirt with security to not get carded. How to dress to get into clubs you’re totally not old enough for. How to order drinks. How to avoid arrest. How to roll a decent joint. How to not cough up a lung anytime you smoke. How to take compliments. How to make out with someone in a crowded bar and not attach a metric tonne of emotion to it. How to have successful one-night stands using the same rules. How not to care if the person you find hot is a girl or a guy. How to be.

It’s been _educational_. And, for the most part - rain, shitty misogynist promoters, crappy motels with hideous curtains, and pretentious dick band dudes aside - it’s been fun.

Early on, when it was decidedly _less_ fun, and you expended vast amounts of energy on _not_ doing a lot of things - not talking, not crying, not thinking about Karma. You debated turning off your phone because it hurt to read Karma’s name and the long, months old text threads were torture. And yet, you couldn’t delete them. Karma wasn’t as easy to let go of as you hoped she would be. In the end, you gave up and left your phone as it was, not least because of the death threats from Shane and Lauren and a heartfelt plea from your mom. Texts have been it for a lot of the time. Texts are easy, and you can fire off things to please all of them without really trying. It’s a comfortable lie - one that’s staved off loneliness, hangovers and regrets, and all manner of bad decisions. Decisions like Karma. Decisions like Felix. You never realised how badly you treated him until you started to relate your story to the girls over cheap beers.

When you get off this tour you’re gonna have to start another one of own, seeking out people to apologise. You’re not sure if the list should be in order, or where Karma and Felix would sit on it, but it needs to be done. You didn’t so much as burn bridges, but napalm them, and then walked away and expected everyone to be fine. Running is a Raudenfeld trait. It was selfish, but you’re done being everyone’s doormat. More specifically, you’re done being Karma’s doormat. You could never hate her - you don’t have the capacity for that - because you know she doesn’t mean to hurt you, it just gets harder to endure when it's all that keeps happening. Meant or not, the pain is real enough.

To move on like Reagan said, to start fresh, you need to be completely honest with people. Right now, you’re still finding it tough to be honest with yourself. That’s a work-in-progress.

Your mom has been surprisingly clingy since you left. It’s entirely possible that though you’ve kept contact to a minimum, you’ve talked to her more now than you ever did at home.

Whether that’s good or bad, you still can’t decide. You know most of her behaviour stems from guilt because of what she said before you left, but no one is without motive. Guilt or not, you’ll take it. It’s better than what became normal for far too long. The longer you stay away, the more you wonder if the Amy everyone knows, and the new, emerging Amy you’re becoming can co-exist. If at all. At some point, you think you’ll have to let the old version of you go, but that involves letting go of other things too.

So, you’re here in this amazing city, finally able to see more than a motel, a diner, and a concert venue. You have a three-day break until the next show on Monday night. It seems like a good time to take a breath and take stock, and you would’ve been fine tagging along with Miranda and Shay; or bouncing around coffee shops and museums with Mia, running down the last of the money you have saved while Ash and Lizzie did their own thing. Even your last resort of wandering around and taking pictures seemed solid. You’ve really started to enjoy taking portraits of random people you come across and listening to their stories. People watching has always been your thing, but this is even better. Mass social interaction and parties still really aren’t your thing, but you’re trying. You had to because you could only get away with just talking to the other girls for so long. Asking to take a picture has proven to be a surprisingly good ice-breaker. Thanks to selfie culture, people seem a lot more receptive, or you’re just good at reading who to approach.

You thought you were coping. You thought you weren’t so lonely. You gave serious thought to dropping out and getting your GED, because you couldn’t see a life for yourself in Austin anymore. But then, a week ago, you decided to use some cafe Wi-Fi and check your email for the first time. Amidst all the notifications for Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, and Instragram, the music mailing list letters, the college application enquires, and a legion of spam, were two emails, real ones. Separated by a few minutes in sending. You know them both off by heart.

First, came one from your dad. It was nice to see his name. It’s just a quick one, him stepping into dad mode, rather than the ones about shooting techniques or comments on the things you’ve decided to share along the way. He just upgraded all his work equipment, so you’re using his old set, but they’re not really old at all, and you’re terrified of losing it or breaking it somehow. Every shot you line up a shot it feels like he’s there over your shoulder, hand coaxing yours to the left or to the right, whispering encouragement. You email a lot when he’s away somewhere that doesn’t have a decent enough connection for Skype calls or Netflix bingeing. Over time, you’ve come to prefer it, you can be more truthful somehow, if he’s not looking at you when you say things. It seems he feels that way too. For once, you’re both in the right place at the right time.

 

 _To: amrad@gmail.com_  
_From: hjraudenfeld@nytimes.com  
_ _Subject: Meeting of minds_

_Hey honey (you’re not too old for that, right?)_

_I hear you’re doing well on your adventure. When we spoke last week, Mom told me you and the girls would be hitting New York on the twelfth. I’ll be back for a few weeks myself before my next assignment. So, if you feel like hanging out somewhere other than a motel, eating (pretty) decent food, and watching some docs with your dad while you’re here, message me back and we can sketch out the details. I know my place is pretty small, but the girls are welcome if they want to come with._

_It’d be great to see you; I hope we can make it work._

_Be happy. Be smart. Be safe._

_Dad xxx_

_p.s. Call your mom more. She’s worried about her little girl out there in the real world. So am I._

 

Of course you replied immediately, typing automatically that you’d love to, he should send his address, and promising to call your mom too. Against your better judgement, you did call her that night before the show during soundcheck, and you ended up talking for longer than usual. It was an actual conversation instead of playing a game of pass the platitudes, drowning in small talk, saying everything but what you needed to. It was nice. It was a relief. She told you how proud she was of the pictures and the footage Lauren had shown her online.

It’s been a while since she’s said that. It’s been even longer since you’ve felt that about yourself.

You know that your dad reaching out to you is due to her coaxing him a little. He knows not to poke the bear and leave you well alone until you make contact, because you’re exactly like him. But now, you’re glad he did because it feels less like an intervention and more a real invitation. It’s a little late for him to try and be a real father to you, but you’re happy for the opportunity to connect, or reconnect. You know you’re lucky to have the time and the opportunity, so you always take it. You haven’t stayed with him since you were nine and one of his brief visits happened to coincide with a metrology conference your mom was attending. It was a fun few days and you did all the silly tourist things: hot dogs and pretzels, the Empire State Building, and the Staten Island Ferry. This time, you don’t want any of that. You just want to sit with your dad, have coffee or have dinner, maybe go around the MOMA, lose a couple of hours in the tiny room he has set up as a darkroom because it’s too small for anything else.

Maybe you’ll talk, maybe you won’t. Maybe you will because he won’t force you to do any talking.

A few seconds after you sent that reply another email came. It was from Karma. It’s almost two weeks now since it happened, and you’re still surprised she held out so long and actually gave you space. Going off her track record, you’re sure that it was the distraction of lifeguarding, and possibly Shane’s influence saw to that happening.

 

 _To: amrad@gmail.com_  
_From: instantkarma@gmail.com  
_ _Subject: words aren’t enough_

_Amy,_

_I know I shouldn’t be writing to you. I know you want space and I respect that, but please, keep reading._

_I hope you’re doing OK, I really do. I’ve seen your posts on Twitter and Facebook and other places. I haven’t looked at them, but Shane and Lauren say the pictures you’re taking are amazing and that the girls look awesome. I’m proud of you. I really am._

_I know it wasn’t easy to leave. Sometimes, I don’t understand why you had to do it, but I’m trying._

_I’m still trying to understand everything. You. Me. Why things went the way they did. I just wanted to try and write down my thoughts_ , _because I didn’t get to tell you everything I wanted to and because I wasn’t fair to you. I haven’t been fair for a long time. This is hard for me to put into words, but I’m going to try my best. You deserve that; you deserve to know what’s been going on._

_Now, I don’t even know where to start. Typical._

_OK, here goes. I said ‘I can’t’ to you the day you left because I couldn’t say ‘I don’t.’ That would be a lie. I did feel something when we kissed. Something I’ve never felt with anyone else but you. It’s terrifying. It’s making me rethink everything I’ve ever felt, and everything we ever did, even before I talked you into faking it with me._

_I know you still have feelings for me and I’m sorry, I’m truly, truly sorry for how I’ve treated you. I never meant to hurt you but I know I have, so many times. I’ve been selfish and self-absorbed and I didn’t see it. Sorry isn’t enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I want to make it up to, Amy. I owe you so much._

_I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me or what any of this means for us._

_More than anything, I want us to try and get back to how things were before. To being friends, to being Karma and Amy again. I’ve said that a lot, but I mean it this time. I can’t imagine my life without you in it._

_It’s so hard without you here, but I hope you’re happy out there. You deserve to be happy._

_Love_

_Karma xxxx_

 

You’re still processing that. You’re still re-reading it when you’ve had a moment’s quiet. She sounds different. Lost. Broken. Sincere. Real. The girls have read it too, analysed and theorised, but even Miranda, the relationship oracle is stumped. They thought they’d seen every possible permutation of ‘straight girl crush,’ and the outcome was ‘rarely fucking good’ (Ashley’s words, not yours). But, then they dared to say that you might be Karma’s exception, and more daringly, upon third and fourth re-read, that she might not be straight at all. Lizzie suggested, with a sage Yoda-like reflection courtesy of JD and coke, that ‘everyone’s a little gay.’

Maybe.

You don’t dare hope. You can’t. Karma’s it, you see. _The_ girl. The more you’ve fought against that and tried to escape it, the truer it’s become. You like people, you’ve loved people even, but nothing comes close to how you love her. If it’s not Karma you spend your life with, whoever you date, ever, will be compared to her. She’s set the bar impossibly high. Reagan tried to vault it, so did Felix. No one’s managed.

Somehow, you always imagined Karma would be standing next to you when you found your way to the Washington Square Diner, craning to see if your dad is waiting at one of the tables, but she’s not. Throughout this whole tour, you’ve still found yourself looking to your right whenever something is cool or funny, weird or amazing. Every time, you’ve expected her to be there, because she always has been - ready with a knowing look, a smile or a comment that’ll make you laugh hysterically. There have been a lot of moments, but you’ve had no one to share them with, not in the way you share things with her. There’s just an empty space where she used to be.

It’s less painful to register that empty space than it once was, but it still hurts.

There are stacks of pictures you’ve taken, that have nothing to do with the band or anything else, that are just for her. Landmarks she’s wanted to see, food she’d like, musicians you’ve crossed paths with that she’d love and asked them to autograph napkins and flyers, matchbooks and beer mats just for her. One day, you’ll give them to her. One day you’ll show her everything and it’ll be a joyous thing. It won’t be some secret that snowballs and you’ll later regret. You’re accepting it now. You can’t erase her. You can’t cut her out like a cancer. It’s not possible. She’s everywhere. She’s in everything. She’s part of you.

Karma’s not here, but she’s still _here_.

Every block you’ve walked to get here, weighed down by a heavy backpack and your camera equipment across you like you’re going to war, you’ve done nothing but think about the itinerary you and Karma wrote in middle school, back when her Broadway diva phase really hit. You’re not sure why, but part of you wants to go stand in Times Square and watch the jumbotron, see a show, dance. The New York dream always ended with Karma’s elaborate vision of your future, completely immersed, living together somewhere in Soho. You’d make movies. Karma would sing. It’d be wonderful and exciting, like something out of _RENT_ , with all the creativity and none of the dying.

That feels unachievable now. Foreign. Ruined. Those plans and those versions of you seem so sweet, so naïve and so incredibly far from who you are now. And yet, not far at all.

“And there she is, my little wanderer!”

You blink, startled, turning in the direction of the sound, realising you’ve completely zoned out looking at that packed diner, thinking of those Soho dreams. Your dad’s not in the diner, He’s a few feet away, bounding toward you, running late as always. You have no idea why he bothers to wear a watch. He’s gripping his camera bag tight, and you can see the airline luggage tag still attached.

Suddenly, as you turn to face him fully, you feel shy and awkward. You’re dressed in the clothes you wore yesterday and the day before that. Band shirts and skinny jeans are your uniform these days, but you wish you’d dressed up a little. Made an effort. They smell of cigarette smoke - and other kinds of smoke - and sweat and cheap beer. Predictably, you didn’t think this through.

You meet in the middle, and there’s a few moments where neither of you knows what to do.

“C’mere,” he says, smiling, and reaching for you.

But, the second he wraps his arms around you, and kisses the top of your head with such gentle fondness, the awkwardness and your travel weary clothes don’t matter at all.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, still holding tight.

You nod, nuzzling into his chest, your hands gripping the back of his shirt; feeling safe for the first time in weeks. He’s wearing too much cologne and it’s making you feel kind of dizzy, but you inhale anyway. Deeper. Thankful. You know the brand he wears, you’ve spritzed it in the mall at the fragrance counter, but it’s never quite the same.

“I missed you, kiddo,” he says, softly as he grudgingly pulls back to press a brief kiss to your forehead.

“I missed you too, Dad.” you reply, hearing your voice crack.

And suddenly, you’re crying, tears springing up out of nowhere, and you don’t really know why.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, pulling you into another hug, shielding you from the view of the people passing on the street and their prying eyes. “What’s this about?”

They’re not tears of sadness. They’re tears of relief.

You don’t know where to begin answering that question. You’re not sure if he’s ready to hear that answer either.

He’s the first person you’ve seen in weeks who truly loves you, who’s connected to Austin. For so long, you’ve thought that staying away forever, cutting yourself off from the world and disappearing might be the best thing to do for all involved. But now, in this busy street, crying in your dad’s arms, you know that you couldn’t possibly do it. You have a lot to do before you make it back home again. You have a lot to figure out and not that long to do it, but you have to try.

There’s no use in hiding anymore. The time for running away from everything you don’t want to face is over.


	2. 235 Sullivan Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Time changes people.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5336327/chapters/12321635). This chapter is the reason why I wanted to write this story. It’s essentially the lynchpin, where Amy reveals a lot about her experiences on tour, the effect of Karma’s absence, and the state of her relationship with Hank, which is why it’s much lengthier than the opening chapter. All three elements have different parts to play in this storyworld, and while it’s darker than canon would allow, I hope it remains true to Amy as we know her.

It’s taken you a while to adjust to being here.

Whenever you and your dad are together there’s always a good hour before you really settle because you’re unused to being in each other’s orbits. You don’t have the automatic knowledge of habits and likes and dislikes. You’re always playing a game of catch-up. Now that you’re older, the acceleration of those things is slower than it was, but they still matter. You know it bothers him as much as it bothers you. His work is the best substitute. You’ve read every column and op-ed, flipped through page after page of his changing portfolio online and in glossy printed gallery brochures. There, the distance between you doesn’t seem nearly as great. In fact, the older you get, the more like him you seem to become. You think it’s partly why your relationship with your mom is so difficult.

The apartment is smaller than you remember. The last time you were here of course, _you_ were smaller.

Everything’s changed. The paint is less bright; the buildings across the street are weathered from the rain and the snow. The people living on either side of your dad are new, and they’ve never spoken to him. Everything’s changed except for Mrs Bucatinsky across the hall, except, even she has. She has silver curly hair instead of red, and had to look at you twice before she recognised you as ‘little Amy.’ You’re still not sure how you managed to fight the urge to hide behind your dad like you used to – painfully shy and wary of new people.

Like always, she made you both come inside for cookies and milk in her kitchen while your dad relieved her of babysitting his beloved cat, Sasha. Like always, that damn cat bolted to try to escape and hogged his attention until he could get her back inside. Sometimes, you’ve given serious thought to the idea he might love Sasha more than you. Still, the cookies were as good as you remember too, but she was kinder, more open, and somehow less threatening than she used to be. She’s no longer the evil old witch waiting to give you a poisoned apple, but a little, frail old woman who you tower over. It’s sad in its own way. When you left, she hugged you and said you’d grown into a ‘beautiful young woman’ and insisted you call her Edith, and invited you to come by again for dinner. She seems to like the company, and you know from her stories and the pictures on the mantel that your dad reminds her of her late husband, Frank. He played along a little to comfort her and you’re glad his coaxing got you inside the door to see her.

You took a risk and asked for a picture for your growing number of Polaroid portraits, finally understanding what your dad meant about her having an interesting face. To your surprise, she was happy to oblige. It’ll make a good print you think, maybe a good submission for a photography contest or another course if you can’t make it into Clement.

After that meeting with Edith, it was something of a relief to find the decor in your dad’s apartment is one of the few things that hasn’t changed a great deal.

Simple and minimal, only the framed pictures on the wall are different: huge black and white blow-ups of cities, and people, and landscapes sit alongside posters for French and Italian cinema and concert posters for jazz, or rock, and folk that happened long before you were born. Besides photographs, he’s not really one for trinkets or keepsakes. There’s little colour except for the spines of books, CDs, DVDs, and vinyl that lines the walls.

It strikes you hard that it’s not particularly homey, but then you remember he doesn’t spend a vast amount of time here.

You briefly wonder how this place would look if your mom hadn’t gotten sole custody. It sometimes bothers you he didn’t fight harder to keep you. In a rare moment of candour, your nana told you that it was because he didn’t see you as a possession, and he believed staying in Austin was the best thing for you. He wasn’t in a position to offer a stable home, much less be anything approaching a father while he was bouncing around the globe on assignment, clocking up air miles. Deep down, you know the right decision was made, but it didn’t stop you from missing him at birthday parties, Christmases, parent-teacher conferences, and Father’s Days that go unmarked because he’s in a different time zone. For a long time, he was a voice on a line, a card in the mail, a face on a screen. A flying visitor.

You’re glad that’s changing.

He’s whirling around you, trying to straighten up, stacking magazines, and clearing away weeks old newspapers from his (and your) favourite old tan leather couch. You smile at it, because like you, he’s not naturally a tidy person. His flight was delayed, so he didn’t have time to make things as nice as he wanted. You told him not to worry, but he carried on anyway and you let him. It’s nice to be made a fuss of, babied even, because it’s been a case of sink or swim for these last few weeks. The girls have taken you under their wing and protected you in sketchy allies, and yanked you out of the odd bar fight when necessary, but the rest of the time, they’ve let you (for better or worse) do your own thing.

It took you a while to find where to put your bags, and then you had to ask a million questions about where he keeps everything. Short answer? Everywhere. Bathroom stuff is actually _in_ the bathroom which came as a surprise given the rest the of the apartment. He doesn’t have a tub you can soak in like at home, just a shower, but it was still good to take your time and wash everything away. You never thought you’d be so thankful for consistent hot water that runs at a decent pressure, but you are. First world problems.

You felt something nearing human again when you stepped out from under the spray. Afterward, you spent time just looking through all his grooming things and the cream and lotions left in the cabinet by Corinne, his current girlfriend. Of all the people he’s dated, Corinne is the nicest. She’s on assignment for the Associated Press. You’ve only met her twice, and though it was nice to talk to her on FaceTime, it would’ve been cool to meet her in person. She said you could borrow any of her clothes or makeup, but they’re all much too nice. She’s a little over twice your age, and infinitely more sophisticated.

Pretty much all the clothes you have with you need to be washed, so after borrowing Corrine’s robe, you’re wearing one of your dad’s college t-shirts and your own plaid sleep shorts instead. They’re the only thing you have left from the extra clothes your mom made you bring when she stumbled upon you hastily packing. You didn’t have much time before the girls were leaving, and Reagan made it clear they wouldn’t hang around and wait. You ran out of those a few days ago. Sympathetic, your dad held up a Columbia shirt in one hand and Vasser in the other and made you choose, saying with a smile that they ‘might be a little small.’ It swamped you; of course, you can’t even see the shorts. You chose Columbia, and his smile widened. You stood looking at NYU when you passed it today for longer than you ever thought. Going there doesn’t seem such a strange idea anymore, even if that does mean the end of the Clement dream. Karma might not even want to go to Clement anymore. You haven’t talked to her for long enough to ask her things like that. 

She probably only went along with it for your sake, anyway.

The fact that there are gaps in your knowledge of Karma and that those gaps are becoming more common makes you sad, but that’s life. Your grandpa always used to say that growing up meant a little of growing apart too. You finally understand what he meant. It’s not a nice feeling. This is why you shouldn’t have time on your hands. Time gives you time to dwell and nitpick, comb over everything that’s happened in this last year or so, and see the points where you could’ve made better (or different) choices. To see where everything unravelled.

That, you know with a startling and cruel degree of accuracy. Homecoming assembly.

You busy yourself looking at his books and his vinyl, picking up Sasha when she curls her tail around your leg. You still hate her, and she still hisses and scratches your arms, like she always has. But then, you take her to the window and look out over the street, sticking your head out to f.eel the breeze, watching all the people coming and go over at Third Rail Coffee. For the first time, you don’t actually want to throw her out the window, and she curls into you when you pet her. Her fur feels soft and silky and it’s comforting. The only person she’s ever taken too instantly is Karma. You can still remember when your dad brought Sasha home for the first time, back when you and Karma were still little, and Sasha was a tiny kitten with huge green eyes that he found shivering one rainy night. He shielded her under his coat all the way home, and she’s been part of your lives ever since.

When you stroke her just like Karma always did, it makes her purr. You look down at the same moment she looks up, and you realise how similar those green eyes are to Karma’s. You smile even though it’s sad, and Sasha purrs at you. A few weeks ago, you would’ve gotten angry at yourself for making all these associations, and with a _cat_ of all things, but now, you just feel strangely calm.

“I miss her too,” you say quietly, and Sasha purrs again.

It’s a shock to admit that out loud. It doesn’t really matter that you addressed it to Sasha.

Sighing deeply, you look back out at the street, wishing away the tears welling up and threatening to fall.

You have to focus on the good for now. You’re still not ready to open the little Pandora’s box that is your feelings for Karma.

There’s been a lot of good already today. Breakfast was more like brunch, and you didn’t really talk much beyond polite things about your respective journeys. After the surprise crying, you’re glad he didn’t really push, because you’re not sure if you could’ve stopped talking. The complete lack of pressure to do anything feels nice. Though you hate to admit it, much of that niceness was to do with the fact your dad paid for the whole meal, and ordered you the same, except now you didn’t share and he didn’t cut any of it for you. It’s the first time you’ve actually enjoyed something instead of worrying about how much money you just wasted. You almost cried tears of joy when you tasted the deluxe pancakes because of the butter, syrup and bacon, because it’s the first meat or dairy you’ve eaten since leaving Austin. All the girls are either vegetarian or vegan, so you held off out of politeness. Whenever you eat at Karma’s it’s the same, but she’s a little more relaxed about it. Your dad smiled, clinking his coffee cup to yours in celebration, saying – mouth full – that he was going to ‘feed you up’ before you left New York.

He’s keeping his promise.

Lunch ended up being something quick (and a lot more healthy) from Juice Generation while you walked around and took pictures. It didn’t seem to matter anymore that you were tired or that your bags were really too heavy to carry. He asked about your trip and you finally started to talk about the places you’ve been and the people you've met, showing him bits of footage and photographs on Instagram with your phone. The planned route you had in the beginning pretty much went out the window after Amarillo. The girls picked up shows and others got pulled. It’s been nice to look back on it because so much has happened so quickly, merging into one giant amorphous _thing._ Lots of things stick though, like Oklahoma, because Ashley wouldn’t stop singing the damn song from the musical, or the Carolinas, because they reminded you so much of home in the best way. You took a lot of pictures of houses, because your mom loves the architecture. She says she’s going to put some of them on the wall at home.

You got through everything you’ve uploaded far too quickly, and he was disappointed until you said you had a lot more left and couldn’t wait to show him. You ended the afternoon at Washington Square Park, your feet in the fountain to cool off. He hugged you too tightly and kissed you atop the head, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. This is everything you ever wanted.

So much so, in fact, that you found yourself skipping over things and censoring yourself pretty quickly. He’s not stupid; most of these shows have been near bars or in them, tiny places, dives, mostly. But, you know part of him still sees you as that sweet little five-year-old with pigtails who carried a teddy bear around. You don’t want to taint that image by telling him how Ashley took great joy in introducing you to the shots, and weird cocktails, and mixers whenever the opportunity presented itself. She told you you’d find your limit. Your limit came when you ended up throwing up for what felt like forever in some alley near the HiLo Club in Oklahoma City. Shay carried you, piggyback; all the way back to the motel, and Mia put you to bed, sleeping on the floor so you wouldn’t ‘die alone in the night … or something.’ The hangover the next morning was so bad that you think death might’ve been preferable.

“Penny for ‘em?” your dad asks, appearing at your side. When you don’t answer he adds, “Maybe should raise it to a buck, huh? Inflation and all,” with a smile. He reaches over to pet Sasha, and his hand covers yours, giving it a squeeze. “We’ve got time, kiddo,” he finishes in a whisper, pressing another kiss to your temple.

His affection is strange. Your mom isn’t naturally a tactile person. Neither are you. It’s Karma that made you that way.

“I know,” you nod, thankful for the reprieve. “Sorry for spacing, I’m just tired.”

“You should hold out for a little bit,” he advises, “try and keep to the same sort of schedule. Jet lag,” he pauses to correct himself, “or, bus lag in your case, kicks your ass less if you do that.”

You stare at him blankly, setting Sasha down on the floor because she’s getting restless. For once in your life you don’t want to read or listen to music. You don’t even want to veg in front of the TV.

“Laundry helps me focus,” he offers, nodding toward the large backpack in the corner. “Boring, but necessary.”

He’s right. You’re over hand washing, and those coin-op places just eat money, so they were pretty much a no-go. Consequently, you’ve got no idea what to do now, since you’re only allowed to load and unload at home. Anything more complicated and you risk your mom’s legendary wrath.

“I suck at it,” you shrug.

“Well, now’s the time to learn. Seriously. Some of this could be classed as a biohazard, honey. I don’t wanna have to call in Hazmat!” he laughs, but you can see he’s kind of disgusted.

“I know it’s gross,” you reply, sheepish.

“I thought you said these girls were teaching you stuff?” he laughs. “Looks like you last washed these sometime around July 4th! First rule of photojournalism, hon, your subject should not smell you from around the block. Blows your cover. Come on.”

He shoves some baskets and a box of detergent into your hands, leaving you to coax Sasha to her cat bed in the corner before racing to catch up, following him down the two flights to the basement. You offer to carry one of the bags more than once, but he won’t hear of it. He’s being so kind and attentive that it’s almost off-putting. It doesn’t entirely fit with the stories your mom and your aunts tell, or the snippets of arguments you heard as a child, sitting on the stairs with Karma, clasping her hand tight as you both peered at them through the railings.

People change. Time changes people. He’s making up for lost time.

You’re surprised to find that the laundry’s almost empty apart from a few people waiting on the dryers to finish their cycle. A guy with huge oversized headphones around his neck nods at you both in greeting, and your dad offers a ‘hey,’ but the surly girl next to headphones guy says nothing.

“Alright, let’s do this. First we gotta separate all this out,” he says, beginning to pick through one band shirt after another. “Light, dark, fragile,” he informs.

You smile, hearing your grandma Maggie in his words. It’s oddly fascinating to watch him do such mundane things, and you stick close, standing on your tiptoes to see when he drops things into the washer and what else he adds to the small piles you’re creating in the baskets, passing things between you.

“Ah, I taught you well!” he declares, holding a Blue Oyster Cult shirt aloft, beaming with pride. “Good girl!”

You smile back at him again, but it fades quickly.

Karma got you that after you saw it in _Lucky_ magazine on Taylor Swift. It’s your favourite. You wore it for two weeks straight until your mom forced you to wash it. You were terrified the print would crack. It did, but Karma said it only made it cooler.

It’s not meant to be here. Nothing that reminds you of Karma is meant to be.

“I figure there are about four loads here, we’ll split ‘em between two washers. No one likes a machine hog,” he says, with a pointed look in the surly girl’s direction and she snorts derisively. “Just a little of the detergent, not too much, don’t want to flood this place,” he continues, turning his attention back to you.

“I’m not _that_ stupid,” you reply, only just managing to keep from rolling your eyes.

“Uh-huh, so-called not stupid people have done that before. Just ask your nana why there’s a rug in her kitchen. Once your aunt Bonnie finished, it looked like a whole soap factory exploded in there!”

“Point taken,” you nod, stepping back.

“Boring, but necessary,” he repeats, with a wry smile. “A lot of adult life is like that, Amy. They don’t tell you that in movies. I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to grow up if I were you.”

There’s a few minutes more of sorting and loading, and then he closes the door. You wait for the big moment where the machine roars into life like it does at home, sounding like a space rocket, but there’s nothing.

“It’s older than you are,” your dad says after a moment, motioning toward the machine. “Gotta give it a little kick.”

“Me?” you ask, uselessly, feeling yourself flush.

“You,” he nods. “Left side. Quick. Once. Like when you’re trying to sneak things out of a vending machine,” he clarifies, and you hear headphones guy stifle a laugh.

Now he’s talking your language. There’s a machine at school on the second floor, right before the senior locker banks and the science labs that always eats money. But, if you hit it just right, it pays out double.

So, you do as he suggests, and kick it square with the toe of your favourite, now much more worn, Converse. Sure enough, the ancient washer spurs into life, and you spin around, grinning at him in triumph. He holds up his hand and you high-five it. The surly girl huffs and mutters something, but you don't really care. Little victories and all that.

“And now we wait,” he declares, folding his arms, leaning against the counter. “Don’t say I never taught you anything,” he says, looking at you proudly.

“Thanks,” you reply, softly.

This is about more than laundry.

You hop up on the counter, wondering if there’s enough time to tell him about Karma and all the other mistakes you’ve made. You’re close, closer than this morning in the diner, but you can’t quite yet. Instead, you watch the washer spin and let your mind drift and clear, strangely mesmerised. For a hot basement full of noise, it’s strangely serene. You feel OK; you feel something like settled, for the first time in a long time. Maybe it’s because the person next to you isn’t just _there_ , he’s _with_ you and _for_ you, in a way that the band girls can’t be because they don’t know you well enough. You don’t let people in easily anymore. That was your plan when you left Austin – to try and keep the world at arms length and protect your heart – but you can’t say you followed it.

That strange serene feeling is still there now, hours later, as you fold your now clean laundry, warm from the dryer. There’s something immensely comforting about sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by the clean, sweet smell of the detergent and the softness of the fabric you hadn’t appreciated until now. Little things. It’s still light out, but it feels later. You passed the time between loads playing Words with Friends with your dad on your phones. He kept looking and cheating, but you didn’t care because he’d smile and nudge you conspiratorially with his elbow between turns. Sometimes he let you win. Sometimes you let him win. It’s nice. He’s been ignoring calls all day, refusing to make anything but you the centre of attention.

You’re not used to it.

He left you a half hour or so ago, to get you both pepperoni pizza from his favourite place, Arturo’s on Houston Street. Every time you’ve talked about plans for your New York visit, Arturo’s has been part of it. He wanted to take you, so you could sit and listen to the jazz while they cooked it, but you’re too drained. The tiredness you thought would be fixed by showering and focussing on the laundry hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse. He looked sad, but he went anyway, leaving you with National Geographic and Sasha for company. Surprisingly, you’re happy about it. You liked the distraction, taking care of her and setting out her food and water. You were happy to have space to relax and let go a little. Even though today’s been great, you feel like you’ve been playing the part of Amy – the Amy he remembers seeing last. The fact that you had to plan for and then disguise the fact you snuck into the bathroom for a cigarette – hanging out the window to get rid of the smell and the smoke – is the sad evidence of how different you are to that girl.

You’re not sure if all the changes you’ve undergone, or all the habits you’ve acquired, are good ones.

At least your only witness to the whole cigarette charade was Sasha, and she can’t tell on you.

She pads in cautiously from the kitchen and settles near your feet while you attempt to repack your backpack to how it was when you arrived. Somehow, despite being exactly the same number of things – and ergo, the same volume – folded in the exact same way, they won’t fit. At. All. You watched a packing tutorial on YouTube. The guy said it never fails.

YouTube guy is wrong. In frustration, you toss everything out and start again, taking considerably _less_ care than the first time. The combination of your anger, and pressing socks and tiny rolled up things into the smallest of spaces seems to work. Even though you could’ve changed into your own clothes, you didn’t, happier to stay as you are until it’s absolutely necessary to dress otherwise. The only thing left now is your most prized possession after your laptop and camera equipment – a shoe box crammed full of Polaroids, tied with ribbon in sets, corresponding to the place they were taken. You flip through them again, passing over some, stalling over others: Little Rock, New Orleans, Montgomery, Jackson, Nashville, Savannah, Washington, Philadelphia.

It’s crazy to see it all laid out like that. Concrete and important.

You’re not sure what’s after New York yet, but the original plan was to go all the way to Portland, Maine, and then loop back to Austin via Virginia, Missouri, and Kansas, so you’ve pretty much covered all of the East Coast – they’ve already jokingly said the West Coast is for next summer, but you don’t dare think that far ahead. No matter how much further you travel from here, you’ll always think of Savannah and Nashville. Everything seemed to happen there. You still haven't processed all of it, and you hate that you’re thinking about it in therapist speak like that, but you can’t help it. Things happened. Things happened to you, and because of you, and in spite of you. You’ve changed. They’re the kind of things you’d usually tell Karma, but you don’t know where to begin. That would require actually _talking_ to her, and you’ve made a concerted effort not to for so long now, you don’t know if you can anymore. That, in itself, is sad. Perhaps the saddest thing of all to come from the mess that is the past eighteen or so months of your life.

You fought so hard not to lose her, and here you are, having (un)willingly let her go.

With all the photos piled to your left, safely away from Sasha, you remember what lines the box, protected in tissue paper, is a t-shirt. It’s not just any t-shirt, it’s from The Bluebird Cafe in Nashville. Karma’s always wanted to go there too. The whole experience of visiting was painfully bittersweet. You imagined her there, just like Scarlett from that _Nashville_ show she's obsessed with – even more than she used to be obsessed with _Glee_ and that’s saying something – up on the stage, Juliette Barnes seething in some dark corner. It was so easy to do. She’d fit so well there, naturally, in a way you know she never has in Austin.

You wish you could’ve taken her. Sometimes you wish she would’ve fought a little harder and forced her way onto the bus.

“It’s for Karma,” you announce, lifting the shirt so Sasha can see, like she can understand anything you say. “It’s from The Bluebird.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said her name.”

You jump out of your skin, seeing your dad a few feet away, pizza in one hand, six-pack of beer in the other. You didn’t even hear his keys in the door.

“Jesus Dad, creep much!” you exclaim, clutching your chest while Sasha scurries to the corner, spooked. “Don’t do that!”

The Polaroids and the shirt go back in one hurried jumble, and you shove on the lid, embarrassed, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t be. It’s ridiculous because you’re going to show them to him anyway, you just wanted to be ready.

“You used to talk about her all the time,” he offers, setting the pizza and beer down on the coffee table. “Every other word used to be Karma. What happened?”

You immediate reaction is to laugh and he barely hides his surprise.

“Amy, you know you can talk to me, right?” he says, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch. “About anything. No judgement.”

Your heart sinks. You don’t want this to be some massive deal, an intervention. That’s your mom’s MO. She’s the one who always grills you for answers, and just yells louder when they’re not what she wants to hear. He’s calm, he’s patient, but now you can’t help thinking this whole visit is one long set of moves to get you to give up information.

“I know,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “I just, I just need to …” you sigh. “I need a little time before I get to that.”

“We’ve got time, kiddo,” he reminds you, opening a beer against the table with a practised flourish. “Maybe take a slice or two and think again?” he continues, flipping open the pizza box and sliding it toward you like some sort of holy offering.

“Maybe,” you reply, hesitant, as you sit down next to him on the couch, and take a slice for yourself.

You’re not sure why, you can’t say you’re even that hungry.

The second you bite into it, you know he wasn’t joking about how good it is. You thought he was exaggerating on purpose, like everyone does about food when they say it’s the best of anything, but he’s not. He’s _so_ not. It’s good. It’s _really_ good. You hum your appreciation, savouring it. The way you’re wolfing it down isn’t very ladylike, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Told ya,” he smiles. “Totally worth the miles right?”

“Uh-huh,” you agree, forgetting your mouth is very full. Somewhere in Austin, your mom is appalled enough for the entire state. “Can I have a beer?”

He eyes you for a second, like he’s not sure who he’s looking at. “Alright, just one,” it’s reluctantly given. He almost looks sad. “Don’t tell your mom. I’m supposed to be guiding you, not influencing you,” he adds, opening it for you anyway. “But, I think a lot of other people have been doing enough of that.”

The quick tap to his nose he adds at the end of his sentence is a reference to the newly acquired stud you got with Shay, on a whim in South Carolina that he’s otherwise declined to comment on. Just like the bright pink streaks in your hair that you got earlier on in New Orleans. You always thought both things looked good on Reagan, and you were tired of people thinking you were an uptight goody-goody. Karma didn’t mean it, of course, but it still stuck, and the rapturous cheers you got from the girls whenever you did something new (read: out of character) led you to keep pushing and trying new things. 

It was fun. Until it wasn’t. Aside from how great the footage and the pictures are, and the amazing people you’ve met, your overwhelming feeling now is regret. Deep, deep regret.

When you put the bottle to your lips, it doesn’t taste as good as you thought it would.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but don’t let that be a reason for you to lose sight of who you really are.”

So, it seems your parents have talked about you. Growing up, you were always the kid that other people’s parents held up as an example. You’ve have good grades and your teachers write glowing reports, you never used to drink, and you don’t touch drugs – not the hard ones anyway. Sure, you talk back to your mom and can sulk in silent protest for an inordinately long time, but in the grand scheme of things, you know you’re a good person. Until the jail incident, you’d never gotten in any serious trouble. Go hard or go home, right? Maybe all of this is making up for lost time? After all, you never _did_ have that phase of acting out after your parents got divorced. This should be the part when you ask what’s been said, and how close your mom is to sending you off to some school because she thinks this is all down to Karma – that she’s ‘disruptive.’ What she really means is that Karma’s a bad influence, but she’d never dare say it. Karma is, but not in the way your mom thinks. Never in the way your mom thinks.

He’s right. You know he’s right. The momentum of different and new and exciting carried you along. He’s not the kind of person to waste words on saying things he doesn’t mean, and that makes it sadder. There are a lot of things you could say about needing time, and space, and just wanting to be freer, but they all sound like excuses, and pathetic ones at that. But, you don’t, you say nothing, because if you start that conversation you’ll end up arguing, and you’ll have stormed out before you know it.

Sometimes, silence is the best course of action.

You stay like that for a while, just eating, watching TV, and pivotally, not talking. The documentary on the screen is different, and the pizza is almost gone by the time you look up to see your dad on his third beer, looking through the Polaroids intently.

“You have a great eye, you know that?”

It’s not what you expect him to say, especially after what’s already been said (or not).

“Really?” you ask, not bothering to conceal your surprise. You lean forward to see what shots he’s looking at.

“Really,” he echoes, softly, with the slightest of smiles. “Great composition. Great energy, and that’s not easy with these, not with how the processing and the exposure changes the light balances.”

“That’s why I like them, I guess,” you shrug.

People have asked you about your ‘process’ and you’ve tried to explain it, but it’s not as conscious as that for you. The light in rooms, in streets, and on faces, when it falls in such a way just captures your attention. You like how different the Polaroids look from similar shots on your Instagram.

“They’re great, Amy. Really,” he says, considering the next set carefully. “Just … beautiful.”

He sounds awed. He sounds proud.

“Thanks,” you reply quietly, with a shy smile.

If he let you, you’d talk about this all night. That way, you’d get to ignore the very real urge you have to just sob your heart out about everything besides the pictures – the things that seem beyond the edges of the frame. About getting absolutely wasted in Oklahoma. About how Ashley and Lizzie hook up all the time, and it’s about nothing more than having a good time. About how easily free drinks came your way once you watched Shay draw people to her, and you examined how she flirted with them until you could do it all on your own. About Nashville, and how you consumed way more alcohol than Oklahoma, because now you were bolder and braver – and so _not_ that little Texas kid that the worldly-wise college girls had to take under their wing. Relatively quickly you’d become someone who kissed strangers in dark corners of clubs and bathrooms and didn’t think about the consequences. You weren’t afraid to go after whoever, or whatever, you wanted and follow wherever it led you.

It was intoxicating. It was dangerous. It was bound to end badly. The end came in Nashville. The end came with Andie.

“I really like this one,” he declares, flashing one of the Polaroids at you quickly. It’s too quick almost, but you still catch enough of it to remember who the portrait is of. “Andie, bartender, The 5 Spot, Nashville, June 11,” he reads aloud, nodding. “Great face.”

For once, you wish the captions on the Polaroids weren’t so accurate.

“Yeah,” you swallow hard. “She was really cool,” you take a sip of beer to wet your suddenly dry mouth and end up chugging almost half the bottle. Your dad pretends not to notice.

The bar was busy that night. Hot with bodies and sticky-floored. Red and blue lights bathed everything, so it looked like a different planet, far from Austin. That’s the way you justify it. How you explain it all away with hindsight. You remember more than her face. You remember her voice, and how she yelled at the two guys in front you for cutting in line, and said ‘on the house, Blondie,’ for the first and second drinks. You remember her eyes, and the particular shade of green they reminded you of, and how they sparkled a little when she smiled. You remember her hair, red, a little wavy, and how the lights made it glow. Karma’s green and Karma’s red. From certain angles, she looked exactly like her, and nothing like her at all. You were drunk enough for it not to matter. It didn’t matter because you wanted her. You _really_ wanted her.

Andie is the first girl – woman – you’ve openly wanted like that. The first woman you’ve lusted after, and chased without thought for the consequences. Andie’s the first woman you ever got. No declarations of love, no tears, no rejection. You wanted her, she wanted you. Supply and demand (or should it be demand and supply?). It was all you needed. The only catalyst for you to leave the bar with her after her shift was over. After a while, it didn’t matter that they weren't Karma’s hands, or Karma’s mouth, or even Karma’s bed. It was about sex. Amazingly good sex. You slept with a woman, not a girl. You loved every second of it. Andie wasn’t about love and feelings. You didn’t _make love_ on that bed, you _fucked_ , hard and fast until you were sweaty, and spent, and breathless. Woken when the pale light of a new day streamed in, you left her bed. No teary goodbye, no kiss, no note. You just left, stumbling out of the door, down the stairs and into the street, nursing the hangover from hell after too many strong cocktails with Ashley.

It was exciting and terrifying, wonderful and horrifying.

“Something tells me she didn’t serve you ginger beer,” he says, with a wry smile, sipping his own drink.

“Not so much,” you laugh, nervously.

“Like I said,” he sighs, almost wistful. “No judgement. Your old dad’s not stupid. I was seventeen once,” he laughs. “Nashville’s great. I knew you’d love it.”

You nod, finding it harder to keep everything in, gripping your beer bottle tighter. “It was … loud, and crazy, and weird.”

That doesn’t really cover it, and you hope it’s enough to satisfy him. There are some things he shouldn’t know about his little girl.

“Sounds about right,” he says, glancing over at you. “But, that’s not all, is it? Something happened.”

He’s effectively got you cornered. So, you confess before he forces it out of you.

You wish Andie was the worst part of your stay in Nashville. It wasn’t. That lofty honour goes to a trip with Mia to Black 13 Tattoo. You were out drinking and got carried along with her excitement about getting something to commemorate the trip. It’s all a little vague after that. The next day, you woke up with a sharp, burning pain around your right hip in addition to a terrible headache, and Mia sitting on the edge of the bed like a guard dog, glowering, telling you how ‘fucking stupid’ you were, throwing a piece of paper at you that you’d apparently given to Ryan, the tattooist. On it, was a sketch you’d been carrying around in your pocket for weeks. You didn’t get a music note, a heart or the cool soundwave like Mia did, you got A+K plotted around compass points, with a heart replacing north. A testament to how completely _not_ over Karma you were there on your skin.

“This happened,” you declare, calm and matter-of-fact. You lift your shirt, revealing the tattoo on your hip.

“Jesus,” he breathes, slamming his beer down on the table. “What the _hell_ possessed you to get that?!” he doesn’t raise his voice easily.

“I wasn’t exactly sober at time!” you reply on the defensive.

“Does your mom know?!” he asks, downing the rest of his beer before letting you answer.

“No,” you reply, quietly, lowering your shirt again. Damage done.

“Good. Maybe don’t reveal it the same grand ‘fuck you’ manner when you get home?” he suggests with a wry smile.

“Sorry,” you mumble, barely able to look him in the eye.

“Yeah, you and me both, kiddo,” he sighs, deeply. “I’m all for you expanding your horizons, Amy. I’d never challenge that. But I didn’t think you had this on the menu when you said you were getting away for a while. What’s gonna happen to you in another six weeks? A pregnancy and a crack habit?!” he exclaims, angrily, puffing out a breath as his he drops his head in his hands. “You’re smart, you’re sensible, you’re better than this.”

“I know!” it’s almost a scream, and it surprises you both.

You’re just as disappointed in yourself as he is.

“Oh Aims,” he says with the deepest of sighs, pulling you closer. “Where’d my sweet girl go?”

“She grew up,” you reply, your voice cracking. The tears come then, springing up unexpectedly. “She had to.”

He squeezes you tighter as you cry, kissing the top of your head gently. “I knew something wasn’t right with you. I always know.”

You nod, clinging tighter to his shirt. You wish you were that little girl again. You wish it so much.

“I knew when your mom said she had to start calling you.”

“I left Austin so I could get some space,” you say, voice muffled by his shirt. “I needed space, I just didn’t know what to do once I was all alone,” he pulls back a little to look at you, brushing away your tears.

“Space for what?”

You suck in a breath. “You already know, she told you.”

“Maybe, but I want you to tell me,” his voice is soft again, eyes kind. “You can’t carry on like this, sweetie. Tell me the truth.”

“Karma.”

And there it is. Quick and simple.

He nods, sympathetically, taking your hand in his. “The party, right?”

You’re still not sure why you told your mom everything about what happened. Well, you are. If you told someone else, then it meant it was real. It actually happened. Karma kissed you. Karma kissed you, and meant it, and reawakened feelings you’d long since thought dead. As it turns out, you hadn’t buried them deep enough. Not deep enough at all. You should be mad at her for betraying your confidence and telling him, but you’re not. Instead, she’s saved you from re-opening wounds that have barely healed.

“It was easier to drink, and dance, and try to forget any of it happened. It hurt less then,” you sniff back fresh tears. “For a while at least. I just want to go back to being friends. Why did I have to ruin everything with all my stupid feelings, and because of some stupid _fucking_ spark?”

You don’t mean to swear, but you can’t help it. What was it Shane said? Forest fire? Yeah, that’s much more accurate.

“You can’t help what you feel,” he replies, like falling in love is simple.

“Or what Karma doesn’t,” you counter, with a bitter peal of laughter.

“True, but that’s not what this is about, Amy. Not anymore.”

Your brows furrow. “It’s not?”

“Nope. I’ve seen you together. The rules don’t apply here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to suggest that you go back and force Karma to say she feels something when she doesn’t, because that’s not you.”

“So what is me?” you shrug.

“Walking away to protect what you have now, because you’re terrified of losing her. But now, you’re terrified she’ll hate you for it.”

“How did you – ” you start, barely able to speak, because he’s read you so completely, so clearly.

And then, it dawns on you. He did it too, ten years ago. Except, it wasn’t to protect a friendship, it was to protect your relationship from the effects of divorce. It was to stop all the darkness and the suffering that comes with your dad’s job from seeping into your home and into you. His sweet little girl.

His reply is soft, resigned. “I did that once. Rightly or wrongly.”

You nod, squeezing his hand, acknowledging the moment.

“I don’t hate you, Dad,” a breath. “Not anymore.”

“And Karma will get to that place too,” he says, sure and certain. “You’re going back, Amy. You’re going to be able to do something I never did.”

“What?”

“Figure out how to stay instead of leave,” he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll do it. I know you will.”

When he pulls away again, his eyes are brimming with tears.

“I don’t know what to do. She emailed me when you did, she sounds so lost, and so confused. It’s my fault.”

“Be there,” he pauses, making sure he has your attention. “Sometimes people don’t figure out how they feel until it’s too late. Don’t let it be too late for Karma. Would it be easy to date someone else like that Felix guy your mom keeps raving about? Sure. Maybe that’d be fine for you for a while, but do you want something easy or something that lasts?”

“I thought I was over her. I thought I knew what I wanted and I thought I knew who I was,” you admit, sheepish.

It feels like you’ve learned everything and nothing over this summer.

“Honey, I’m almost forty-seven and I don’t even know that!” he laughs, deep and genuine. “I do know something though. I know that all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. I don’t care what form that takes. OK?”

“OK,” you reply, voice wavering. “OK.”

“It can be Felix, it can be that Reagan chick with all the _hair_ stuff. Or, it can be Karma. It can be whoever you want. I don’t care. You’re still my little girl and I love you no matter what, but you’re not happy right now. Only you can change that.”

You thought time and space would make you happy. It’s just made you lonely and miserable. Without Karma to talk to, Austin will be lonely and miserable too. You can’t win.

“She feels so far away,” you blurt out without realising.

“So, close the distance,” he offers, simply. “Call her.”

“I can’t,” you cry, fear evident.

The thought of her hanging up as soon as the call connects has haunted you ever since you left.

“Trust me, the longer you leave it, the worse it’ll be for you both. There’s space Amy, and then there’s isolating yourself for no good reason. I think you know which of those you’re doing.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. Again. Time’s not on your side here.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says, rising to his feet slowly. He turns off the TV and crosses the room.

You want to pull him back and make him stay, because you don’t feel strong enough to do this on your own, but you know he has to leave. The couch is yours tonight. You tossed a coin on it and lost. It seems apt now.

“She might not answer,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.

“She’ll answer,” he says, firm, turning back to you. “It’s Karma. Everything’s different when it comes to you.”

You watch his figure retreat, last beer in hand, and wait for the door to close until you go to your backpack to search for your phone. It’s late, too late really, the clock on the wall tells you so. You’ll disturb her sleep, but you think it might be good to try this when she’s less guarded because you’re afraid she’ll just reject you again. For comfort, for safety, you curl up in your dad’s favourite armchair. Sasha hops from her new spot on the window ledge to the arm of the chair, and then into your lap, settling herself. For the first time in your life, you feel like she’s here for you. With shaking hands, you scroll through your contacts and find her number, hitting the button to dial it, and wait for it to connect, heart pounding loud in your ears.

It seems to take forever, and then it happens. You don’t know what to say. The thousands of things you’ve held in your head for weeks fly out of their own accord. All you can hear is Karma’s breathing on the line, soft and steady. A tear rolls unbidden down your cheek.

“Hi, Karma,” your voice is uncertain and unsteady, like you’re five again, talking to her for the first time.

Maybe you are.

_“Amy …”_

At the sound of her saying your name, gentle and sleep-heavy, you burst into tears.

“I’m sorry ... I’m sorry I left you ... I’m sorry I stopped fighting for us … I’m sorry I took so long to call …”

It all rushes out of you at once, between great, wracking sobs. The heaviest of weights lifting. Clarity descending.

_“It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve been so worried about you.”_

Of all the things you thought she might say, that’s not one of them. Deep down, you know this is mostly relief talking – the questions and the anger will come later. But for now, her concern matters, it means the distance between you isn’t as big as you thought. Things can be repaired. Things could be OK.

You have hope. Enough hope to carry you through until you make it back to Austin.


	3. 1502 Inglewood Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You thought getting here would be a relief.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5336327/chapters/12321635). So, here it is, folks, the final chapter. I’m really pleased with how this has been received. I know the style isn’t to everyone’s taste (or the content for that matter), but I’m thankful for all the feedback and support I’ve received for this take on Amy’s summer. I really like how this turned out. I hope you are too. Click [here](http://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/objects-are-closer-than-they-appear) to listen to mix I made to accompany the whole story.

You’re here. You made it back to Austin in one piece.

It’s a miracle, and not just because the bus died five times in the last week or so. Two of those times were before you’d left New York. The way things were going, you thought you might have to hitchhike the last part of the journey from Wichita Falls, carrying everything on your back while listening to Miranda and Lizzie bitch for hundreds of miles because the honeymoon period was over. Everyone was sick of the shitty van, the shitty motel rooms, and each other. The fact that you were obligated to stick a camera in front of their faces to record their discontent just made it even worse. Somehow, the girls managed to hold out and satisfy their commitments, recovering when promoters pulled out on them. You managed to hold out too, and somehow you managed to not take up your dad’s offer to use his frequent flier miles at any point between Maine and Austin, and you’re glad you did.

The rest of your time in New York went quickly. You tagged along on your dad’s fashion shoot assignment and got to be his assistant. He prefers reportage, but it was a favour for a friend. He doesn’t talk about the toll seeing all that suffering takes, but you know it affects him. You walked a lot and talked a lot over coffee, and munched your way through too many pretzels and doughnuts. That’s your therapy. You whiled away hours holed up in his darkroom, watching the pictures develop was still as fascinating as when you were little. Even though you know the science, because he’s explained it and Mr Lewis at school explained even more, you still like to think of it as a little piece of magic.

Your dad came to a few shows, taking some shots in hopes of using his name to get the band some coverage. Even though it ‘wasn’t his kind of music,’ he listened intently and watched proudly. On your last day, he took you to the MOMA, and you ended your trip with dinner at The Modern. You borrowed a dress from Corinne, just like she said, because you had nothing pretty enough to wear next to your dad’s suit. When he saw you for the first time, all dressed up with some help from Corinne via FaceTime, he smiled, but it was the saddest smile you’ve ever seen. Tears in his eyes, his voice cracked when he said, ‘my baby has grown up.’ Your talk that night was freer and more honest than you’d ever had before. He made you promise to stay safe, to call your mom every week, but to keep following your own path. His parting words to you before you climbed aboard the bus were, ‘Do everything to find your happiness and hang onto it … No matter what.’

That’s easier said than done.

Somehow, you’ve made it through the whole tour and without too much damage. If you still prayed, you’d give thanks for your good fortune.

A few months ago, all you wanted was to leave Austin for good and make a new life for yourself, but now you know there are reasons — good, solid reasons — that you need to stay, like your dad sad. Even so, there have been moments along the way when opportunities have presented themselves, where it would've been easy to transfer schools or drop out completely. But then, you’d be doing nothing but running, you’d grow, undeniably, but you’d never learn. You’d carry the ghosts of your mistakes with you no matter how many thousand miles there were between you and whatever place you chose to call home.

One of those moments came early on, with Sam, a musician you met in Savannah, back when everything was fun, and exciting, and everything felt full of possibility. He was different from most people you’d encountered thus far: open, and passionate, and giving. It was nice to have someone to talk to when the girls were busy and didn’t need or even want you around. The dark-haired, dark-eyed Australian lovechild of James Bay and Jeff Buckley, he let you take picture after picture and follow him around bars, pool halls, diners, and record stores a whole afternoon was lost in Graveface Records and Curiosities. Instead of feeling pressured to talk, you you were content to listen while he played, and talked about his music and the places he’d lived before. You clicked. There was a spark, and it was clearly a mutual attraction, but it was so different from what happened later with Andie, and the other beautiful, but nameless people, you found yourself drawn to. It was safe, somehow, like if you’d gone there with Oliver, or even Felix. It was easy. It was exactly what you needed.

In another life, you could’ve left the tour and stayed.

He reminded you so much of Karma it was almost painful, but it was his similarities that let you go there and fall for him. Not love, not at all, but something meaningful. For two weeks, you gave in. You said yes instead of no, you let your guard drop. His affection filled the void that Karma’s rejection left behind, and you took every ounce of it. Greedy. Lost in the novelty of it. He was the fresh air you needed. The freedom, the confidence, and the happiness you’d been craving for so long. For a while, it was enough. It let you forget her, and stop wondering if there could be a life for you after her, because you were living it. Deep down though, you knew it was time limited, and so did he; that sooner rather than later you’d become friends on a list, or likes on a post, and that didn’t seem to bother him at all.

In the end, you had one night together, before you left with the girls for Charleston. You didn’t plan for it to happen. You didn’t chase it down as some ridiculous realisation of a summer fling. You didn’t even do it out of spite to prove Karma wrong. He never forced you into anything. It just happened, and it was good. Better than you expected. It wasn’t some saccharine overblown evening of making love, but it was nothing like later in Nashville either, it was somewhere between those two places: sensual, but sexy, about your pleasure as much as his, and a lot more fun than your first ever drunken experience with Liam. Even in the darkest moments of this trip, nothing’s really hit that low. Emotionally or otherwise. This time, there was no walk of shame, no teary goodbye, just a hug on the street outside his apartment, followed by a kiss to your forehead and the soft whisper of ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ in your ear. Instead of being left with regret, or some horrible longing pain because some things felt unfinished, you just look back on it all with a rare degree of fondness.

You’re not sure if you found that elusive ‘thing,’ but you’re pretty sure that you’ve found what you don’t want, and who you don’t want to be. 

That’s why you quit smoking, took out the nose stud, and didn’t care when the pink streaks in your hair started to fade. The tattoo, however, is still very much there. The most permanent thing. At first, you regretted it, and then you were angry because of how stupid you felt, and now? Well, you’re not sure. It’s become part of you, just like Karma is; for better or worse, and you think that’s kind of fitting. You can’t run from these feelings, you can’t change them, and you’re finally realising that you can’t deny them either. They’re part of you too. They might change, they might dull to the point you think they’ve gotten too quiet and died out for good, but they’ll never go away. Not completely.

There’s no off switch. You should know, after all. You’ve looked harder than anyone else to find it.

This leg of the tour has been decidedly quieter than the first, some might say it was boring. Aside from keeping up with your portraits, taking shots of anything that caught your eye, and buying little mementos to keep the whole trip in perspective, you made a conscious effort to calm down and enjoy the time you had left. With every new place you’d stop at, you’d buy a postcard, and write a line or two to Karma, just to start reconnecting with her. Each time you posted them, you had something concrete to show for your progress.

The air wasn’t clear exactly, but the fog was lifting. The thaw — self-imposed or otherwise — was starting.

 _It’s nice, you’d like it here_ . __  
_I wish you were here, you’d have so much fun.  
__I miss you. I miss you more than I ever thought I would._

Karma could never read them, she could’ve set fire to them for all you knew, but sending them mattered, even if she never replied to them, and you chose to have no other form of contact. It gave you something to work towards. By the time you’d get to Austin, you’d have everything together. You’d be Amy again. You’d give her the apology you owed her and you’d know every word of it, still sincere. You’d ask her about the email, and wait however long it took for her answer, _if_ there was an answer.

You drew a line under everything that went before. You drank less, went out less, and managed to stay in the calm of the storm that is life on tour. Instead of you filling your nights with drinking, dancing, makeout sessions, and ill-advised hookups, you chose to stay behind to edit your video footage and give shape to the experience that had nothing to do with your mess of a life. Somehow, you managed to get good material. Even if your whole life felt like it had gone down the toilet, at least you had something good to show for it, professionally speaking. It’d get you into Clement, if nothing else. You got the perfect mix of frenetic energy when the girls were on stage, and calmer, quieter, candid moments when they were on the bus, reflecting on their respective journeys. You’re proud.

They noticed the change in you too. After New York, time with your dad, and that long overdue phone call to Karma, they said you were different. You were more like the girl they met in Austin. Older and wiser, but more like your old self. It was a conscious thing. The piercing, and the hair dye, and the partying wasn’t really you, they all knew that as much as you did. You just needed to step out of your own skin for a while, to let loose, to not care, you just pushed a little too hard, too fast. Fuelled by anger and selfishness, you held on to the single thought that to get beyond Austin and Karma, you had to change everything about yourself. If the outside looked different, then surely, then the inside was different too. You were better, you were over it. You were over her.

As it turns out, that was rather flawed logic.

Still, you think it was necessary. Harmful, stupid, and painful, but necessary — like cutting yourself climbing trees, getting stung by bees, or chased by a neighbor's dog after trespassing when you’re a kid. They were necessary because everything that’s happened to you — the good, the bad and everything else — have lead you to this point.

Karma’s house.

The first place you wanted to visit in Austin. The only house other than yours that you don’t need a map to find. You’re not comfortable, or even remotely foolish enough, to think you can just waltz up to her door and expect her to be fine with your being there. Not anymore. You want to be here of course, you would’ve come eventually because waiting would’ve killed you, but you’re here because she asked you to, in an email sent a week ago when you were in Arkansas.

You keep reading that too, just incase the words are somehow different, if there’s something else to be read between the lines to suggest she’s less confused than she was in her first one. Truly, and without agenda, you hope that she is.

  


_To: amrad@gmail.com_  
_From: instantkarma@gmail.com  
_ _Subject: square one_

_Amy,_

_Come over when you get back to Austin. I think we need to talk._

_Travel safe. I miss you too._

_Love_

_Karma xxxx_

  


Even now, the ‘I miss you too,’ stands out. It came as something of a surprise, because it meant she _had_ read your postcards, and had maybe even kept them. Thinking you could be in her life, and maybe even be friends again, didn’t seem so far-fetched, so remote, so impossible, as when you called her in New York. It was a conversation that swung from awkward and stilted, to soft and caring, and back again more times than you can count. You think you’ll always remember how hurt Karma sounded at your leaving, how much she hated that there were parts of your life she didn’t know about, and would never relate to, because she wasn’t there.

That’s the greatest tragedy in all this, you know that now. If you’d been more honest, on better terms with her and yourself, she could’ve come along. She could’ve been there.

Sometimes, you have to consciously remind yourself she wasn’t.

Almost every night, except when you were too tired and too drunk to remember what happened, you dreamed of her. You dreamed sweet, sentimental things; of walking through fields with her, hand in hand, on summer days with cloudless skies where she was always yours. You dreamed dark things; of drowning, and car crashes, and losing her when she wasn’t even yours. You dreamed strange things; of crowded clubs, hot and airless where every face you saw was hers, every mouth that you kissed you was hers, every hand that touched you was hers, shifting shape under the lights. You dreamed beautiful, wonderful things; of her naked in your bed, of slow touches and unwinding hours when she became yours. You dreamed the filthiest of things; of fucking her against walls and on desks, where nothing was soft and sweet, and you owned every inch of her body writhing with ecstasy underneath yours, and you took her for yourself.

No matter what happened, the result remained the same, you were confused, frustrated, and a lot of the time, sufficiently weirded the _fuck_ out by it all. They felt so real that most mornings it was like leaving her behind all over again, and you never got used to it.

“You know, I really like talking to my fucking self, Texas!”

Mia’s voice is loud in your ear, and she elbows you sharply in the side for good measure, jolting you back to reality.

“Space cadet!” she huffs. “Jesus Christ!”

Texas. You’re still not sure why that stupid nickname stuck. They all go to Texas A&M, so they live here too for now. It seems like years have passed since Reagan introduced you when she took you to a party on their campus. It feels longer since you’ve been outside this house. You’re not entirely sure that you haven’t entered some weird alternate dimension where Karma will have aged, and she’ll open the door flanked by a husband and two kids. You’re entirely sure that strange, vivid scenario is the result of being cooped up in this van, not having eaten today. Nerves got the better of you.

“Shit, sorry!” you reply, disorientated.

“So, are you gonna sit here all night like a creepy fucking stalker or are you gonna go in there and talk to her?”

She has no reason not to throw you out on the street. You’re the only thing between her and home. All the other girls have gone, dropped off at various places, so the fact that she hasn’t done anything while you sat there, eyes trained on Karma’s door, watching the street go dark, is oddly touching.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit, quietly.

“Start with hello?” she replies, with a smirk. “It’s the usual course of action when opening a conversation. Have you learned nothing?”

“Funny,” you glare, and she just laughs. “I’m glad you find this so amusing.”

“Because your baby dyke drama _is_ amusing,” she looks at you with a strange mixture of fondness and pity when you flinch at the word ‘dyke.’

You don’t bother to correct her because it’s easier for now, you’re not entirely settled on that score.

“Look, she hasn’t seen you in three months, right now she’s not gonna give a flying fuck about anything beyond the fact you’re back. Tomorrow might be different, but deal with it then,” she shrugs, like going in there and talking to Karma is simple.

It used to be. It could be again.

“Sitting here hiding won’t solve shit,” she says, ever blunt, when you make no attempt to move. “Just go get your girl, alright?”

Your head snaps up. “She’s not my girl.”

Mia smiles and says, “Not yet,” before leaning over and opening the door for you.

“I can’t,” you say, hating how pathetic it sounds.

You’re scared, mostly because you never expected to be afraid. You thought getting here would be a relief.

“Bullshit! Go on, get out!” she cries, waving you away. “I’m sick of your pouting little face!”

This time, she practically does shove you out, pushing your seatbelt buckle for you,so it whips away with a whoosh, and you have nothing keeping you inside the van.

“Don’t leave any shit, I’m not driving back to give it to you!” she warns, pointing at you.

You gather your things quickly, scrambling through to the back of the van. It’s sad to see the van empty apart from Mia’s bags and her guitars. Body stiff, limbs heavy, your bags feel heavier than before, and you struggle to lift them. You hear Mia chuckle to herself, muttering “weakling,” and you wonder where all the strength you had went.

You know she’s not big on sentimentality and she sucks at goodbyes, but you feel like you should say something. She’s been the one to take care of you, especially when things have gone sideways. It might’ve started as a favour to Reagan, but you’d like to think it’s more than that now, that the bond you’ve formed really is friendship.

“Mia?” you start, leaning on the passenger door. “I just wanted to say thanks for letting me —”

She jumps in, cutting you off. “It’s been fun. Can’t wait to see your footage. It was decidedly less fun when I was holding back all that pretty blonde hair while you threw up,” she adds, gesturing vaguely. “But hey, can’t have it all.”

You shake your head, cringing, a little ashamed. She hasn’t always seen you at your best. “Yeah, I learned my lesson.”

A moment passes between you, and you just nod, feeling strangely emotional. 

“Good luck, Amy.”

 _Amy_. She called you Amy. You’re not ‘shrimp girl,’ or ‘camera girl,’ or one half of Karmy either. You’re Amy. Her sincerity comes as a surprise, but then as no surprise at all. It’s the little push you need to finally close the door, giving a little wave in lieu of saying goodbye. You stand and wait, listening to the spluttering engine get softer and softer and the van gets smaller and smaller until it turns at the end of the street, and you can’t see it anymore.

Finally, you turn toward Karma’s house and leave your summer behind.

It seems to take forever to walk the short distance to her door. You stall, finger hovering near the doorbell, and you wonder why you’re even contemplating pushing it. You’ve had a key since you were deemed old enough to walk to school with her alone. This house has been a second home to you for as long as you can remember, and now it feels foreign to be standing here, like you’re trespassing somehow. But then, the decision is made for you because the door opens, and it takes you far too long to register that Karma’s standing there.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” is all she manages, at the same time you say, “I didn’t know if I should ring the bell.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she launches at you, enveloping you in a tight hug. She’s crying already, tears streaming down her face.

You stumble, a little taken aback by her reaction. It’s not what you expected. You expected anger, coldness, and a door slammed in your face. Stiff in her arms, you’re not sure what to say, or what to do. All she does is squeeze you tighter until you give in and hug her back, breathing her in. The relief overwhelms you in one huge wave, and suddenly your legs feel like jelly and you can’t really stand. Karma’s the only thing holding you upright.

“God, I missed you,” you hear yourself say, voice thick.

It wasn’t meant to be something you said out loud.

“I missed you too,” she says, her reply muffled by your jacket. “So much.”

When you grudgingly let go, she reaches up and touches your face, wiping away tears you didn’t know had fallen. You inhale sharply at her touch and realise you’ve missed that too.

“You look different,” she says, in this soft, awed way, inspecting you in the dim yellow light of the porch. “Good different.”

“Thanks,” you reply, with a shyness you haven’t felt in a long time. “So do you.”

You can’t stop looking at her, shifting nervously from foot to foot. You remember what your mom said in her last call, about letting her lead things and giving her space, despite your very real desire to apologise until you’ve run out of words. You can’t put your finger on it exactly, but she’s different. She’s wearing a dress and pretty sandals you haven’t seen before, very little makeup, and her hair in a messy bun. That hair isn’t as vibrantly red as before; the brown undertone creeping in, but there’s lightness too that signals much more time in the sun. Her skin glows with a light, even tan. But, that’s not quite it. There’s more. Maybe she looks older — obviously she’s older — but, it’s not just that, her features are less soft, her body more toned. You felt it in her shoulders and her arms when she held you. All the swimming, perhaps, or maybe she tagged along on Molly’s jogging regime.

“Come in,” she says, cautious and overly polite in a way you’ve never really been before.

She reaches for your hand, and you look at the empty space where it should fit, hesitant to take it for the first time in your life. Eventually, you let yourself take it, hand closing around hers slowly, like it’s not really happening. Any moment, you think you’ll wake up and find this whole reunion has been a dream. She pulls you inside the house, careful not to make too much noise. You’re hit by a wave of lavender, patchouli, and fresh cut flowers that were absent when Felix lived here. It makes everything seem right and familiar, like you haven’t been away at all, and it brings you a strange sort of relief. 

Karma puts a finger to her lips for you to quiet and you’re not sure why until you look across toward the living room. Molly and Lucas are curled up on the sofa, faces bathed in the light from the television. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t really mind them descending upon you, wrapping you in successive, warm, welcoming bear hugs, because the alternative is an empty house. You’re a few days early, so your mom is still in Houston stuck in network meetings. Bruce is … you’re not sure if Bruce should be your concern anymore. Lauren is — according to her Facebook at least — at a party.

“Let’s go upstairs, quick, before they see us,” Karma whispers, conspiratorial. “I swear they have radar!”

You nod, and follow behind her with light steps in the hope of avoiding the boards that creak, your joined hands stretching between you until you’re forced to let her go.

It briefly crosses your mind to ask why Karma isn’t at the party just to fill the silence. You already know from the call in New York that she and Shane are friends now, and despite the fact that Lauren and Shane have a strange frenemy accord, you’re surprised she went alone. Your own invite from Shane is still in your inbox. You didn’t bother to reply, and he hasn’t done much beyond comment and like your photographs. You sense it’ll change soon, and he’ll be have a barrage of questions to fire off at the earliest and usually the least opportune moment. You miss when he was there as your little gay spirit guide, he’d untangle your thoughts and make something from their intelligible mess. Maybe he’s become that for Karma now? It was so obvious from her email that she needed someone to talk to, someone that wasn’t you.

You have a lot of questions besides that, like how Karma and her family are back in this house at all, and where Felix and Turner have gone to, but you hold back, because there are other, more important things, to be said before you reach those answers. Things like that email, and her feelings, and what the _hell_ she’s going to make of your damn tattoo if that pool kiss really was just a drunken blip; a classic moment of Karma seeking affection from someone she knew wouldn’t spurn her. When you think of it like that, it seems less malicious and calculating, and more like a desperate cry for help.

There’s a deep painful irony about the fact that it’s the one time you chose _not_ to listen.

As you turn toward Karma’s room, you hear Molly’s voice, calling, “Karma, darling, who was that?” faintly from downstairs.

Karma clearly heard it too, since she tilts her head slightly toward the sound, but she doesn't reply.

“Here, let me help you,” she says, deflecting the now obvious tension as you try and struggle through the door with your bags.

“Oh, not that,” you reply, too late when you feel the weight on your back shift as she tries to lift your backpack. “It’s way too heavy. If you could just take this one?” you continue, motioning toward the bag around your neck that contains two of the four cameras — and most expensive things — you own.

“No kidding! What do you have in there, a dead body or something?!”

“Not quite,” you reply, smiling despite yourself.

Karma walks back, pushing her hand against the door to close it, and it feels like an important moment. You’re sealing yourselves away from the rest of the world.

If the other shoe drops now, and she flies at you, your only escape is through a first floor window. Despite how tall you are, and your newly-gained strength, you _suck_ at climbing — a brief stint in Girl Scouts is evidence of that.

The that fact you’re plotting escape routes from the room you used to feel safest in is desperately sad, and makes you feel a pain there’s no name for.

You shrug off your bag, groaning with relief when you let it go, and it slumps down to the floor. Otherwise, there’s no relief, and you’re still tense and awkward around her and you’re not sure why. It feels like something else needs to happen before the feelings of strangeness, of awkwardness, and unwelcomeness will subside. If they ever do. Something is broken between you now: messy, jagged, purposeful.

A belated show of defiance.

Of all the things you regret about this summer, the way you left is right at the top. _Left_ — it sounds so neat, so pretty, so valid. You didn’t leave, you abandoned her in the street, not knowing if she could get home safely.

You’re not sure where to sit down, or even if you should, without her inviting you to do so.

She seems to sense your unease, meeting you in the middle of the room, hands clasped in front of her.

“You can sit,” she says, soft and careful. “If you want?”

It’s comforting and saddening that she had to qualify it in that way, like you’re here under some sort of duress. Nothing could be further from the truth.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and nod, relieved. “Thanks.”

Even so, you wait for her to sit on the edge of the bed first. She crosses her legs, smoothes down her dress, and looks up at you, expectant. You make a point of keeping some distance between you both, just in case she’s not comfortable. She’s so close now, closer than she’s been in months, and she feels farther than ever.

“How are you?” she asks, cautiously.

You sigh deeply, worrying a loose thread on the cuff of your jacket. “I’m good. I’m OK,” and then, because you remember how much of that New York conversation was defined by you sobbing to each other over line, “better than New York at least.”

She nods, sympathetically. “Did you have a good time?”

The way she says it is far too guarded, like a mother or an aunt, not a best friend. You wanted bouncy, excitable, puppy Karma, asking a million questions, and talking over half your answers. You wanted to race up the stairs with her and collapse on the bed, giddy with excitement, body surging with adrenaline to stave off the hours of travel.

It’s not like that. You’re bone-deep tired. You wish you could perk up some and make this a proper homecoming.

You decide that now is probably not a great time to share stories about rolling joints and getting wasted, or how a great deal of your time was spent getting over her by getting under someone else, in typical Shane fashion. So, you go for the cool, life-affirming side of things instead. It’s the kind of thing she responds well to, and isn’t likely to scare her away, or leave her completely disgusted.

“I did. It was loud and crazy, and sometimes it was hard to tell where the hell we were,” you let out a soft chuckle. Cities look oddly similar, especially when you sleep during travelling between them. “But it was fun. The girls were great. I got to see so many bands and musicians, and the girls went over really well. People seemed to like it.”

“That’s cool,” she replies, softly, just managing to smile. “I’m glad.”

“I wish you could’ve been there,” you say, softer still, half addressed to Karma’s bedroom carpet.

Her voice cracks tellingly when she says, “I wish I could’ve too.”

In some strange alternate universe, there is a Karma that would’ve barged onto the bus and wouldn’t leave. You can see that Karma on stage with the girls. You can see that Karma sitting next to you in the van, head on your shoulder while she sleeps. You can see that Karma in your bed.

“Maybe next summer?” you offer, still nervous.

“Maybe,” she echoes, sounding vaguely optimistic. “It’d be nice to get out of Austin.”

You suck in a deep breath, and something feels different. It’s not much, but you feel fractionally less terrible than when you got here. Future plans with Karma — even distant ones — are something to celebrate.

“Oh hey, you kept it,” she notes, pointing toward your shirt, looking desperate to change the subject.

It’s the Blue Oyster Cult one. You didn’t even notice, it was just the first thing you found.

“Of course,” you reply with thinly-veiled surprise. “It’s my favourite.”

Well, actually, the first thing you found was Corinne’s dress that she you keep. Something told you that if you wore it, Karma might think you were making a little too much effort, and expecting too much in return. The focus of your energy has been getting here, not what would happen once you did. Looking at yourself now, blushing slightly, reflected in her mirror, you think that you didn’t make enough effort at all. Your hair’s a mess, your jeans have holes in the knees from actual wear, and your military jacket has oil on it from your many times as reluctant assistant mechanic with Shay. The t-shirt however, is tellingly pristine.

“I thought you might’ve had a sacrificial burning or something,” she laughs at her own joke, but it rings hollow.

“You gave it to me, I’d never —”

“Put everything you ever gave me in a box and give it back to you?” she cuts in, looking at you sadly.

“I didn’t say that,” you offer, trying to make her feel better. It doesn’t seem to work.

“You didn’t have to,” there’s a bitter edge to her voice you didn’t expect.

This isn’t the homecoming you imagined while sitting on the bus, curled close to the window, your earbuds in, cycling through a months old playlist. You listened to it for three weeks solidly before you looked at the name and realised Karma made it for you at the start of sophomore year. The start of everything.

Silence opens up, and you look down at your bag, lying on the carpet between you, and then you remember: the shirt from The Bluebird. If anything will move things into more amicable territory, it’s that. It only occurs to you when you lean forward and reach for the bag that she might think you’re trying to buy her affection. You’re really not. You got the thing without agenda, collected the photos and their matching autographs, and put them into a book with no thoughts about what it might reap in rewards. The fact that you feel compelled to tell her is just another layer of sadness on top of all the ones weighing you down.

“I have something for you,” you begin, quietly, waiting for her to look up. “It’s from Nashville.”

She brightens immediately, moving tentatively closer. “Really?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “I hope you like it. I know how much you wanted to go, and this was the closest I could get.”

The package is poorly wrapped with thin, cheap paper, but it was the best you could do at short notice. You place it between you, sliding it towards her in all it’s lumpy, ugly glory, like some sort of strange olive branch, hoping it somehow speaks for you — saying sorry for your abandonment and your shitty ultimatum where she could never really be right. It takes her a long time to forgive, especially when she’s wounded deep, but you know you’ll be cursing yourself for your behaviour decades from now.

She pulls at the paper carefully, as if she’s aware she’ll never get this moment back. You’ve never seen her like this before, she always tears at things in a flurry of excitement.

“Oh my God!”

The second she sees the writing on the shirt, her whole face lights up in a smile so beautiful that it hurts. You can feel tears welling up, a lump forming in your throat, because _this_ is more like what you imagined.

“You went to The Bluebird!”

“I did. Just to get that for you,” you inch closer to her. “The girls gave me shit.”

Howling with laughter would be a more accurate a description, but she doesn't need to know, and you don’t care. Not when it makes her this happy. You’ve missed this side of her. You’ve missed being the reason why she’s happy. Seeing her like this almost makes up for all the _other_ shit that happened while you were in Nashville. Almost.

“I don’t care, this is so awesome!” she’s beaming now, holding the shirt up against herself while looking in the mirror.

“There’s more,” you say, prompting her to look down and see what else there is. “I met some people, they had a few things to say to you.”

“Amy,” she exclaims, voice cracking, eyes brimming with tears as she turns the pages of the autograph book.

Your heart grows ten sizes, in serious danger of beating right out of your chest.

She doesn't know it yet, because now isn’t really the time for lots of explaining, but you had to cover some miles to get those, and work your way through some seriously big nerves to speak to them all, but you knew it would be worth it. And it is, because right now, she’s looking at you like you’re the most wonderful thing she’s ever seen. You know why, because she got to the flyer from The Listening Room, where you went to went to one of the Song Suffragettes shows. She’s wanted to play with them ever since she stumbled across their videos on YouTube.

“It was seriously cool,” you begin, not really knowing how to do the night justice. Cool doesn’t really cover it. Those girls — women — were amazing. Shay and Mia came along for the ride and were seriously impressed. “I just kept thinking how great you’d be up there. How well you’d fit. I have some footage, and I know it doesn’t make up for what happened, but I just wanted to do something for you to show I still care about you. I just hope it’s not too late.”

Most of that should’ve stayed in your head, but the time for holding back where Karma’s concerned is long gone. It’s part of the reason you ended up in this mess in first place.

“Amy, I just … I,” she shakes her head, overcome, struggling to talk. Her bottom lip starts to tremble, signalling she’s on the verge of tears.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

The image of Karma doing just that, right before you left Austin, is seared into your memory. You don’t want history to repeat itself now.

“I’m happy!” she gets out, between sobs, careful to protect her book from the tears. “These are happy tears! I can’t believe you did all this for me, after everything that’s happened. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, shyly, knowing that you’re blushing. “So welcome. I’ll show you the footage later if you want? I just need to find my laptop in all that stuff,” you’re rambling now, tripping over your words, and you’re not sure why. “I could burn it maybe so you can keep it?” you offer.

“Amy,” she says, turning your head towards her. She’s much closer than she was before, the package is now behind you both instead. “It’s OK, whenever you’re ready. I’m just glad you’re here,” she pauses, making sure she has your attention. You can barely look at her. “Really, I am.”

Somehow, it doesn't feel like she’s talking about your footage anymore. Instinctively, you lean back, resting on your hands, needing a little distance because the tension that’s between you is different all of a sudden. It has that same familiar charge. You’re not sure what to make of the fact that this room feels like some weird time warp, where none of the last three months has happened. She’s looking at you differently, inspecting you almost, and then you feel her hand on your stomach, drifting to your hip.

It takes far too long to dawn on you what’s happening.

“Holy _fuck_ you got a tattoo?!” she screeches, her voice loud and high.

“Yeah,” you say, sheepish, as you look down at her hands. “I did.”

“You got a tattoo!” she repeats, scandalised.

“It hurt like a bitch,” you deflect, trying for nonchalant.

“Wow … Can I see?”

She’s impressed. She’s curious. She’s excited. She wouldn’t be if she knew the whole story.

Before you can reply, she pushes you further back and lifts your shirt to look for herself anyway.

Suddenly, you’re very aware that she’s touching you: careful, soft, and intimate as she traces the shape of the tattoo with her fingertips. She’s never touched you like that before. You swallow hard, trying to keep still when everything in you is torn between crawling right out of your skin — shedding it like a reptile — and staying where you are, wanting her to never stop touching.

It’s not meant to be doing this much. You’re not meant to feel this much. Not anymore.

“I’m ... I’m sorry,” she stutters, pulling back like she’s been burned.

“It’s fine,” you say, sitting up slowly, afraid she’ll startle if you make any sudden moves. “It’s OK,” you continue, hoping to calm her, because she’s never looked this panicked before.

“I just … I didn’t mean to, it’s just so ….” she sucks in a breath, stealing herself. “Does it mean what I think it means?”

There’s no right way to answer this. Either way, you’ll hurt her somehow. Again.

You puff out a breath, choosing your words carefully. “I wasn’t in a good place and I got it on a whim, but I realised,” you pause, looking over at her, knowing she’s watching you. “I realised that it’s true. I’ll always feel something, and I know that probably freaks you out, but that’s true too. I tried to run from it, Karma, and all I got was really tired, really lonely, and really _fucking_ lost.”

“ _Amy_.”

You glance away, because you can’t handle how soft and full of concern her voice sounds, or even how your name sounds when she says it: different and better, like it’s a new word. You think about those emails and the postcards, and you’re terrified to hope. You’re terrified to ask her just in case she rejects you again. Three’s a charm. That window exit feels like a good idea.

And then, you see them. On the wall in front of you are all the postcards you sent to Karma, strung up in the order they were sent. She kept them. Every single one.

“I always knew where to find you, I just wasn’t brave enough to do it,” she declares, in a small, nervous voice you’ve never heard. “After we talked, I went back and I read your posts and I looked at your pictures. I knew. I’d sit in front of my laptop waiting for new things to appear so I knew you were OK.”

You whip around to look at her, completely thrown.

“Karma, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to explain your feelings. It’s fine.”

“No! It’s not fine, Amy. Nothing’s been fine since you left me!” she cries, with this horrible pained look on her face.

She looks so small, so fragile, so hurt, and you hate it. You hate that you’ve caused it.

“I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.”

It’s not enough, but it’s all you can say as you watch her face crumple and she bursts into tears. It feels woefully inadequate.

So, you do what you’ve been fighting ever since the conversation took this turn. You close the distance between you and pull her into a hug, rubbing her back to soothe her in the same way you have since you were little girls, feeling every shake and stutter as she sobs. Only, you’re not little girls anymore, and the thing that’s causing her so much pain isn’t a scraped knee that can be fixed with a BandAid.

There’s no way to fix a broken heart.

“I know I say everything at the wrong time, Amy,” she gets out between fresh sobs. “But please don’t hate me ... I feel like my whole world is upside down.”

“Oh, Karma,” you start, fixing your gaze on the postcards to distract yourself because you’re so ridiculously close to losing it yourself. You hate seeing her like this. “I don’t hate you. I can’t, don’t you get that?”

The ‘not anymore’ goes unsaid, but you hear it all the same.

She pulls away and you lean forward, brushing away tears with the cuff of your jacket. Her hand closes around your wrist. You swallow hard. She let’s go immediately, and you think you’ve crossed some invisible line.

“I don’t know what any of this means, and I tried to figure it out with Shane, but it didn’t work. The only person I wanted to talk to about it I couldn’t.”

You sigh deeply. “Because I wasn’t here.”

Not only did you leave her, you left her at the worst possible moment, when she needed you the most.

“No … yes … no,” she falters, frustrated, looking up to the ceiling. “I mean because it was about you. As soon as you left, I realised how much I wanted you to stay.”

“Oh,” you blurt out, and feel spectacularly stupid as soon as it happens.

“I realised that it’s different, it’s special between us. That not everyone has what we have,” she starts, speaking with such care and sincerity, like she’s been practising in the same way you have.

Except, all those well thought out words left you the second you stepped over the threshold into her house.

“I thought all I needed was time, that I’d know how I feel, but I had that and it made no difference. It was meant to help, but I still don’t how I feel or what to do.”

You open your mouth to speak, but she holds up a finger to stop you.

“And I know, that’s the _worst_ answer ever, and you don’t deserve to be jerked around, but —”

“But what?” you cut in, trying not to push her too hard, knowing that things are delicate.

“I’m scared,” she says brokenly. “I’m scared I do have feelings for you … I’m scared that I don’t. God, what the _fuck_ is wrong with me?!” she throws up her hands, frustrated. “Why don’t I just _know_? Why can’t I be the person you think I am?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Karma. Nothing at all,” and then, because you’ve got nothing to lose at this point, “I wish you could see how amazing you are.”

You’re so angry all of a sudden. She’s so insecure, and she hates herself so much, and you have no idea why. She’s beautiful and wonderful … And how did you ever think you could stop loving her? How could you be so naive, so monumentally stupid? You want to hold her and tell her everything will be OK, like Shane did for you the first time you told him the truth. You want to comfort her, so, so badly, but you’re afraid to touch her, to move closer, to be closer.

She’s so upset, you can barely hear her when she says, “I’m scared of hurting you and losing you all over again.”

And there it is. The truth. Finally. Now you know what ‘I can’t’ actually meant.

“Karm,” is all you can say, watching her face blur in front of you as tears fill your eyes.

“And I don’t want to give you hope, because it’s cruel,” she gulps in air and you grab her hand, holding it between both of yours. You need to do something, anything to comfort her and maybe yourself too. “But, if I don’t give you that hope, then it’ll be just like before with Reagan or Felix. It won’t be enough. You won’t have a reason to stay.”

“That’s not true,” you counter, hoping she believes you. “Soulmates, remember? I never really left, Karma. You were with me every day, somehow.”

At that, she starts to cry again, harder than before. But she recovers quickly, smiling through them, laughing a little.

“I never thought you’d say that,” she shakes her head, swiping at her face with her free hand.

The fact that she’s still holding yours doesn’t go unnoticed. “I need you to help me,” and then, louder and more sure than you’ve ever heard her, “I need you. Will you help me figure this out. Please?”

“Of course,” you reply without thinking. It’s a risk, but you let go of her hand, putting your arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “I’m here, Karma. I’m here,” you add, simply. Then you press a gentle kiss to her temple, letting it linger in the hope that it comforts her somehow. “I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”

You hear her breath hitch briefly, and she exhales, shallow and uneven, but you hear relief too. You mean that, truly, and you hope she knows it.

Right now, above all else, you want Karma to be OK, and to know that not knowing is OK too; that the world won’t stop turning, or the sky won’t fall in because of what she’s told you. She might figure her feelings out tomorrow, she might figure them out in ten years, or she might never figure them out at all, it doesn’t matter. Not tonight. You’re her best friend first before anything beyond that, and along the way, you feel like that’s been forgotten.

For so long, you thought coming back to Austin meant coming home; it meant that your journey was over, but that’s not true. Now, tonight, in this room, you and Karma are taking the first faltering steps on a journey of a different kind.

Destination unknown.


End file.
